


The Wicked Wind Whispers and Moans

by Nayarit



Category: Twilight Series - Stephenie Meyer
Genre: Alternate Canon, Gen, Mystery, Vampire Turning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-17
Updated: 2011-09-17
Packaged: 2017-10-23 19:40:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/254125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nayarit/pseuds/Nayarit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carlisle would never know the vampire that changed him . . . that vampire made certain of this. It was that vampire's secret to carry forever, even when fate would bring them together again. Canon-AU/Pre-Twilight/One-shot/Mystery/My TheCanonTour Entry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wicked Wind Whispers and Moans

**Author's Note:**

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An ancient pair of crimson eyes took in the fateful night around them. It was a night in early November, when the crisp autumn air sang through the trees, capturing its leaves and parading them about before allowing the final curtain of greenery to fall. Only a whisper of nature's production could be heard—the whimper of the foliage's descent, the moan of its passing as feet ground it to gravel and the whistle from the wind promising the frost to come.

Those harrowing eyes took in every sight around them—the cemetery they found themselves in, the street lamps in the distance that outlined a growing metropolis in shadows and the clueless residents. There were a few of them who were walking the lonely streets late at night, but the eyes were never anything but appreciative of them. For of all the sounds present outside that night, there was not even a murmur of or from the owner of those eyes. It was the mark of a predator—stealth.

oOooOOooOo

When the young man stormed into the alcove like some modern Shakespearean with illusions of heroism, flanked by dozens of the _righteous_ among his parish, those eyes, along with others just like them, laughed. A more accurate description of the _righteous_ young man would have been martyr, for there was no way that he would live to see another day.

It was rather ridiculous; armed to the sleeves with crucifixes and holy water, the young man and his congregation was severely under-prepared. Not that any weapons forged by man could harm those eyes or that of their companions, but that the fragile blond human did not even carry a dagger was absurd.

There had been word, for miles and miles around, that spread like wildfire through not only London but also the surrounding provinces, of the pastor, his crusade . . . and of his young prodigy as well. But the fool persecuted his own kind, never even close to encountering a true witch, or were-demon, or vampire. The son, however, was a different case entirely. Of sound mind and body, spirit and soul, he had been clever enough to find a small gathering of damned creatures under the sewers of London.

Yet that was where his cunning ended. Not that it had been by any fault of his own. Humans were vastly ill-prepared for the demons they feared, for even their own folklore and tales, harrowing as they were, were nothing in comparison to the reality.

oOooOOooOo

In the middle of the chaos from the crusade, the young prodigy's eyes grew wide with the carnage as he finally grasped just _how_ ill-prepared he was . . . they had all been. However, the perfect clarity provided by hindsight would still prove to be too late. Vampires that had gathered in the alcove crept and leapt and sprung and pounced, their teeth sinking through the flesh of the heroes like knives through butter. Limbs were propelled from their sockets, the crunch of their bones becoming the shuddersome sound of a percussion section in the night's macabre symphony. Every sound . . . the screams from the men, who had sealed their own deaths the minute they agreed to the crusade, became a vibrato of strings, and the growling and gnawing and clawing became an opus of horns.

Music to the ears of the undead.

As a result of the bloodshed, those eyes transformed into the epitome of thirst for their own kind—the blackest black. And they sought out their sustenance in the form of young Hamlet himself.

Those eyes were quite finicky in their tastes. In the past, they had found the _palate_ offered in Italy as the most appealing, but England was not without . . . delicacies. As a matter of fact, those eyes could not say with any certainty if it had been the English fare or pure boredom that gave birth to the course of events that landed them among others of their kind in London, in the year of their lord 1663. It had not been their first excursion to London unaccompanied, not at all, but ever since the implementation of vampire law in Volterra, those ancient eyes had newfound motivation to remain in one location.

Yet there they were, in what would appear was the right place at the right time, among the gathering of vampires in the tunnels of London. Those eyes decided then, when the first of the screams rang out, that they would take the young Hamlet, if simply for his _heroism._ For what an immortal such a man would make?

Those eyes laughed and glistened with the beautiful irony of something that only Shakespeare could construct—a demon out of a man who hunted demons.

The only true tragedy was that those eyes could not stay to watch the masterpiece woven by their own hands unfold. For there was no doubt, that to those eyes, it would surely be a work of art.

oOooOOooOo

The attack had come from behind, far too fast to have ever been prevented. The young man was walking back towards the entry to the alcove, intent on escaping the horrors before him, when those eyes leapt behind him, their arms latching on to the young man's and pinning him to the frozen chest of his reaper . . . _his_ Shakespeare; the only true Shakespeare, who didn't write fictional characters, but created them.

Those eyes were Shakespeare. Those eyes were the true mother. Those eyes were the true father.

Those eyes were God himself.

oOooOOooOo

The night that was once a symphony of sinister sounds was now completely eclipsed by one very distinct, succulent sound. The agonizing screams of the young man. Those eyes, as red as the dribble of Hamlet's life teetering from the edge of their bottom lip, watched as he withered and twisted and convulsed in anguish.

Rapt in sadistic fascination, those eyes lingered longer than they intended in the shadows. Watching their masterpiece, their stare was a taunting caress as it scoured every exposed inch of young Hamlet's shivering skin. It was practically poetic the way the moonlight hit the curve of his upturned jaw as his body contorted in cries that spewed from him. His long fingers clawed the stone street around him. Those eyes remembered, in the fondness of a mother recalling the first word her child had ever spoken, what his blood had tasted like. They hoped it was a taste they would never forget, for nothing had ever been sweeter, more quenching and divine than their young Hamlet.

Sadly, young Hamlet's eyes were closed. This bothered those eyes more than anything, but for what exact reason, they could not be certain. Did they want to see the agony reflected back at them? Or did they hope that young Hamlet would actually catch a glimpse of his Shakespeare?

What _would_ Hamlet see if he were to stare into the eyes that created him?

This question alone would plague those eyes for decades . . . for centuries.

oOooOOooOo

Everything had changed before dawn broke across the sky that morning in London, in 1663.

It had never been a conscious effort on the part of those eyes; it had never been premeditative; it had never been intentional.

It was strictly coincidence . . . convenience.

Those eyes had not known what would have come from their choice. It had been a pig in a poke. But the fact that it had provided a succor sense of supremacy was not to be doused, but savored.

Yet . . . how was it that a bitter taste lingered where once something sweet had been?

oOooOOooOo

The reality was, those eyes were siblings to two of some of the oldest vampires in existence. Of the trio, one sibling was the head . . . their leader. Another sibling was the heart. The third was the soul. And not for the first time, those eyes hated that they were boxed into something so standard, when in actuality, it was not that simple.

By some twisted course of fate, those eyes had seen years of anguish and pain and would forever be trapped into living—in some sense of the word—with eyes that saw too much. Their choices, why they did what they did, were never simple. This reason, above all else, was why they found themselves walking alone along the planet, nomadic and seeking answers.

Wisdom, which had not been gained without bloodshed, was in fact the only true companion those eyes knew. But sooner rather than later, those eyes would find the need to return to their siblings, if only because loneliness was more bearable when shared among others.

As the years passed, in progressions of time that were never memorable, the siblings came into power that even they had not foreseen. The head, heart, and soul would command a court of vampires. They would settle into that power comfortably and make a home in the city they loved.

But it was the soul that remained blackest of all, that still sought answers that eluded it. Those eyes, encased in a head of hair so pale it was almost white, felt the weight of their choices, but none as gravely as that November night in London.

The secret was theirs alone, and those eyes kept it faithfully, never wanting to tell their siblings what had transpired. Would they approve? Would they renounce? A vampire did not change a human without a reason, and the siblings had _always_ stood firm to this cause.

And what reason had those eyes had . . . vengeance? Those eyes had believed that, then. To find a release to the anguish that haunted them. To cast a play of tragedy, much like the one cast upon them centuries ago. To feel the supremacy of holding one's fate in their hands and ruining it. It would be the sweetest victory.

But had it been?

Those eyes had not known what became of their Hamlet, since that night. And as those eyes matured with time and wisdom, they came to wonder, constantly, just how much black had seeped into not only their soul, but their heart, and their head with their actions that night.

Would that night haunt them forever? Would it come to haunt their siblings as well?

oOooOOooOo

The next time those eyes would meet with their Hamlet would not be in London, but somewhere far east of there. They would learn of his name, Carlisle, and they would discover such nobility in the immortal. He had not become the demon he despised, but superseded that of his own _god_ to become a creature to revere . . . to idolize.

He had become benevolent instead of succumbing to the monster; he had written a fate that those eyes never saw for him . . . Hamlet had become Shakespeare. The demon had become God himself.

And it was then, while taking in the man as a vampire, whose golden eyes and warm smile could thaw the most glacial of souls, that those eyes finally found their answer. They had been wrong all along.

Vengeance was never achieved, life was never written in a play to be acted according to script.

The happiness that radiated around Carlisle burrowed into those eyes, piercing and stabbing.

Those eyes had yet to attain such a priceless commodity, but they were now on their way. Those eyes watched with newfound admiration and hope that one day they would know the touch of something so intimate.

But just like the wicked wind that whispers and moans across the earth, tickling every crevice and stroking every mountain, its course was never finite. Its existence was, but that it would travel the same direction each time was unknown.

Nothing in life, mortal or not, could ever be known . . . written or scripted.

The time that those eyes spent in London, and Italy, and in travelling the world, had been harrowing, eclipsed by the tremendous loss of a loved one and tormented in such a way that they sought vengeance at every corner. It could have easily been said of the three siblings that those eyes were the most malicious, the most frightening, the least forgiving . . . they were the blackest.

But black was a color that could only paint the soul for so long. Soon the sun would rise again, push the night winds aside and take its rightful place.

And as those eyes took in their masterpiece, they were forced to announce each and every similarity among them . . . as well as the differences.

In that moment, they swore to keep to the new change agreed upon by their siblings. Those eyes would see the change to fruition, and they would reap the sweetest bounty. Actions of the past could not be changed, none knew such a thing better than those eyes, but it was the actions of the future that would make all the difference. Those eyes hoped that their future actions would be worthy of the masterpiece they had created centuries before.

Flanked by their siblings, those eyes, golden with a rim of crimson and glistening proudly like the sun rising over a new tomorrow, watched as the leader among them, the eldest of the three siblings, spoke.

"Carlisle, it's a pleasure to meet you. Allow me to introduce you to my sister . . . Irina."

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 **Thanks SO much for reading. I'd love to know what you think**

 **xxNaya**


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